by Colt, K. J.
“Launch the keipr! Launch the keipr! Talon screamed as he ran down the hill.
Jahsin and Akkeri ran to meet him at the water’s edge. He looked east and saw the other side of the spiraling storm coming their way. Soon the eye would pass over them completely.
“Talon!” Akkeri cried and flung herself at him. He squeezed her tight and let her go.
“Come on, let’s get the hells out of here,” he yelled to them both.
“They didn’t bring Chief,” said Jahsin.
“It’s all right,” said Talon with a frown; his friend understood.
‘Fylkin is dead,” said Talon as he approached Vaka Bjorn and the others. “We’re leaving.”
One of the Vaka took the flag and eyed Talon suspiciously. “He’s dead?”
“That’s what I said. I led him into the mines and they blew it up. They gave me this to give to you. Now move out of my way.”
The Vaka scowled at him and Bjorn took the flag. “A deal is a deal, Brightcloud; step aside.”
The man did so grudgingly. Talon helped Akkeri into the keipr and, with Jahsin’s help, began pushing it out to sea. A rumbling came from over the hill leading to the harbor and Talon turned back in dread. Fylkin crested the hill on his chariot, whipping the horses on faster. He brought the wrath of the storm with him.
“You little lying son of a Bikkja!” one of the Vaka screamed and unsheathed his sword. Vaka Bjorn did likewise and stood in the path of the chariot. The third Vaka ran for his life down the coast. Talon scrambled onto the keipr and loosened the sails as Fylkin whipped his horses and screamed curses at them all. The storm came behind him, swallowing up everything in its path.
Fylkin drove the chariot onto the beach and trampled the Vaka who proved too slow to get out of the way. Bjorn dodged to the side and slashed at one of the lead horse’s legs. The animal lurched and went crashing into the water as Fylkin leapt from the chariot and came down on him with his heavy sword. Talon scrambled onto the keipr and reached for Jahsin as the growing wind caught the sails. Fylkin rained heavy blows down on Bjorn. The one armed Vaka was no match for the bigger man; Fylkin’s mighty blow sent Bjorn’s blade out wide, and a backhand threw him into the ocean.
Fylkin came crashing through the waters, pulling back a long whip. Talon grabbed Jahsin’s arm to pull him up out of the water as the whip wrapped around his friend. With a yank, Fylkin pulled him back into the waters as the storm winds began to fill the sails. Jahsin’s hand was torn from his grasp, Azzeal’s ring came lose and fell into the ocean.
“Jahsin!” Talon screamed and dove in after him.
“No!” Akkeri cried behind him.
Fylkin took Jahsin and punched him in the face. The big chiefson laughed and held Jahsin under the water, and Talon climbed up on his back and beat at his hideously burnt head. Without the ring, though, Talon’s blows were meaningless. Fylkin reached up, grabbed him by the hair, and threw him toward the beach. The storm came crashing into the harbor, and Talon watched, horrified, as the keipr’s sails filled to the breaking point and sped Akkeri out to sea.
Fylkin looked him in the eye as he held Jahsin out and snapped his neck.
“Jahsin!” Talon cried, leaping to his feet. He charged into the water toward Fylkin.
The chiefson threw Jahsin’s limp body to the side and grabbed Talon by the throat in a crushing grip.
“You’re mine, Plagueborn,” he said.
The storm returned in full force as the eye moved out to sea. Talon struggled against the big man’s iron grip as his vision went black. Something hit them both and Talon was thrown into the water. He came up gasping for air as his vision slowly came back to him. He searched the ocean and saw the keipr’s sail overtaken by the raging storm.
“Akkeri!” he screamed in a hoarse voice lost to the gale.
Fylkin and Bjorn grappled in the water as the storm waves returned and began pounding the shore once again. Talon found Jahsin floating face-down and struggled to reach him.
“Run!” screamed Bjorn.
Talon barely registered his words. The wind had become deafening, and big waves crashed into him sending him tumbling under the churning waters. He managed to grab a hold of Jahsin and began pulling him to shore.
“It’s alright Jah, Akkeri made it away. We can use the other raft,’ said Talon as he pulled Jahsin’s limp body onto the beach. A giant wave slammed them and washed them to shore. When the waters receeded he pulled Jahsin up onto his lap—dead eyes stared up at him.
“Jahsin, wake up. Wake up!” he cried as he shook him, but his head lolled sickeningly.
Fylkin bellowed in the gale and threw Vaka Bjorn towards the shore. The chiefson stalked towards them unaffected by the wind. Talon scuttled back desperately, pulling Jahsin along with him.
“Leave us alone!” he cried.
Bjorn rose up out of the ocean with his gleaming sword and rushed the chiefson. Fylkin saw the hope in Talon’s eyes and turned quickly, bringing his own sword to bear on the attacking Vaka. Metal clanged as the two men exchanged blows in the midst of the torrential winds.
“Run!” Bjorn screamed once again. But Talon didn’t run, he couldn’t leave Jahsin like this.
A few feet away the Vaka who had been trampled by the horses lay face down in the sand. Talon lowered Jahsin gently and scrambled over to the body. He unsheathed the Vaka’s sword and turned back on the hated Vald and charged.
A mighty blow from Fylkin sent Bjorn’s sword flying into the ocean as Talon ran at his back. Bjorn spun and sank his curved hook into Fylkin’s side. The chiefson howled and smashed his hilt into Bjorn’s face. Talon swung with all his might as Fylkin whirled around on him and batted the heavy blade away. A backhand lifted Talon and sent him spinning to crash into the shallow waters.
Talon came up dazed and choking on seawater. Another wave hit the shore leaving him sprawled on the sand and utterly spent. He had barely enough strength left to raise his head. Fylkin lifted a battered Bjorn by the hair out before him and stabbed him through. Bjorn’s shocked eyes met Talon’s for a fleeting moment as his hand grasped weakly at the sword protruding from his chest. Fylkin tossed him to the side and came after Talon.
Summoning the last of his strength, Talon tried to get to his feet to face the murderous chiefson, but the wind proved too great. Fylkin stood over him with a wide grin and kicked him in the face.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
FOOD FOR CROWS
HAVE I been wrong? Could the elders be wrong? I ponder morals whilst the innocent bleed. What monster am I?
—Azzeal, 4996
Talon awoke in terrible pain. He opened his eyes slowly, blinded by the bright sun. When his eyes adjusted, he found himself in the center of Timber Wolf Village. He hung high off the ground with long, curved hooks holding him aloft from his collarbones. Hooks had also been stabbed through his hands, attached to chains, pulling his arms out wide. Beside him hung High Vaka Moontooth and two other men who Talon assumed were Vaka as well—likely other conspirators.
Moontooth regarded him with a weak grin. His face was bloody and swollen, and if not for his wet, eerie laughter, Talon would’ve thought him dead.
“Now we’re food for crows, boy,” Moontooth laughed sickly.
A Vald child with blond hair and blue eyes peered up at Talon with a wicked sneer. Talon couldn’t help his head from lolling from side to side; he groaned and the boy turned and ran to a tent and disappeared behind the flap. Soon Fylkin came out of the tent. The look on the chiefson’s face was one of victory and vengeance. His head and body had been covered in bandages.
As he caught a glimpse of Fylkin in his bandages, he recalled the explosion in the mines.
Talon turned his gaze to his right hand and remembered: the ring had fallen into the ocean; Chief was dead; Jahsin was dead…
Akkeri!
There was yet a chance she had survived.
Fylkin walked up to him and grabbed his dangling right leg and pulled hard. Talon cried out
in pain, thinking surely his collarbones would snap under the pressure.
The chiefson stood face to face with Talon. He looked him dead in the eye and grinned. “I’m going to keep you alive for days, weeks even,” he said, tugging on his leg. Talon thought he would pass out from the pain; in fact, he prayed he would.
“You recognize this?” Fylkin asked, releasing him and holding up a handful of balled-up cloth—a sail.
Fylkin faked sorrow. “It washed up on the beach this morning—the beach where I killed the one-armed troublemaker.”
“You’re a liar,” said Talon; his fear for Akkeri made him forget all pain.
“Am I?” Fylkin grinned.
Talon trembled with rage. Why hadn’t he killed Fylkin after he laid him out with the beam? He left him alive, and he killed Jahsin. Talon could have prevented his death, and Bjorn’s as well.
Fylkin tugged on his leg a little harder, his grin spreading with Talon’s pain.
“She had to die; she couldn’t be allowed to birth my child,” he said, releasing Talon, knowing his words hurt him more than any blade.
“Liar!”
“Didn’t she tell you?” he sneered.
Talon seethed with rage. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Fylkin leaned in close. “You never had a chance, Plagueborn.”
“Now, tell me where the ring is and I’ll make it quick.”
Talon spat in the big Vald’s face. “It’s up your arse,” he managed to grunt through the pain.
Fylkin laughed and took up a mean-looking whip with three barbed hooks dangling at the end. “I was hoping you wouldn’t make it easy.”
The chiefson walked behind him and Talon shuddered, knowing what was coming.
The first crack of the whip tore into his back and he cried out. The hooked claws dug into him, ripping his skin away. The whip cracked again and again, and Talon begged for the gods to take him. A crowd of Vald began to grow around him, their faces snarling and jeering as they spat obscenities at him. One face in the crowd, however, did not celebrate his torture: the face of his amma. She watched from the crowd with a drawn hood, staring into Talon’s eyes as the whip fell again with her tears. Through his blurred vision Talon saw his father, Kreal Windwalker. The big man stood with head bowed, glancing up at him with a pained expression.
“Father, please…” Talon croaked.
Kreal lowered his gaze and turned to disappear into the ravenous crowd. The whip fell again and again.
Above him the storm raged. Blood fell like rain and the thunderous voice of Thodin bellowed his name in the wind. He ran through the blood-rain and crimson mud as Fylkin followed close at his heels. The giant Vald wore the head of a wolf and his body was covered in flame. In each hand he held the severed heads of Jahsin and Chief.
Talon woke with a cry of pain and thrashed on his hooks. Fylkin walked around him, throwing big handfuls of salt on his wounds.
“Where is the ring?” Fylkin screamed and smeared salt in the open wounds on his back. Talon cried out until his voice failed him. He hung limply from his chains, shaking and drooling.
“Fell in…ocean…please.”
“That’s unfortunate for you,” said Fylkin in his ear. “I’m going to let your wounds heal. I have some of the most skilled healers and witchdoctors on the island. I’ll visit such pain upon you that your suffering will become legend. The name Plagueborn will be your only remembrance.
“Your burns…will be…remembrance,” Talon managed to say.
Fylkin’s eyes flashed and Talon celebrated the small victory, he didn’t care the price.
Fylkin let Talon hang for the rest of the day and night. The storm had left the world calm in its wake. Even through his blurred, teary vision, he saw the destruction the Eye of Thodin had wrought on the village. None of the Vald tents or huts had been left standing. Many of them lay strewn about in the mud, their long poles scattered and broken.
Just like him.
Talon’s heart had followed Akkeri into the unknown. His soul had left with Chief and Jahsin. All that remained of him was flesh and blood, sorrow and pain. He was alone, as he was meant to be. Now he understood, he was a curse. To anyone who dared love him, he was death.
He hung beside Fylkin’s tent unable to move, unable to escape, unable to bleed to death. He wondered if he had it in him to bite off his tongue and choke himself—surely a better fate than what awaited him at the hands of Fylkin Winterthorn. With his luck, though, he would swallow it.
He ran with Jahsin through the field of white buffalo, but Jahsin wasn’t Jahsin; he was also Chief. They raced after Akkeri as she was whisked away in the night across the flooded field of blood. The Vaka chased after them on horses—and the Vald in their chariots. Fylkin and Kreal led the chase. Above the field of blood the Eye of Thodin churned. Through the spiraling storm, the giant eye of the god stared down, unblinking and unforgiving. Thodin, god of gods, had no mercy and no patience for the weak. He would never let Talon leave this island, for he had moved the heavens to stop him.
Talon was lifted off the hooks and carried on the backs of wolves through the dark of night to places unknown. He opened his eyes and saw the white owl flying overhead. The wolves beneath him stopped moving and the world flipped. He found himself in bed in Vaka Kastali, with thick furs covering him and Akkeri.
“Why did you leave me to the storm?” she asked as a single tear of blood ran down her face.
“Akkeri, I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for her. When his hand came near her face, a wave crashed over them and the room dissolved into a dark churning ocean. Talon found himself fighting for breath and swimming to the glowing surface. Jahsin was there standing on the water.
“Jahsin!” he said, reaching for him, but Jahsin leaned down with his stump and Talon could not reach.
The world went dark and he was running through the mines with Fylkin raging after him. Beside him Chief raced as well, his eyes shining like the glowing gem of Azzeal’s ring. Talon ran to the entrance of the tunnel but stumbled and fell through the floor. He fell through empty silence and landed on his back softly, as if he had been lowered by someone’s hands. His amma Gretzen stood over him, chanting and waving burning sage. Her voice came in a strange language he did not recognize. The smell of boiling blood burned in his nostrils, and he realized how very thirsty he was.
“Would you like a drink? Maybe you can keep some down this time,” said Azzeal.
Talon blinked and nodded his heavy head. A firm hand cupped his head and raised it so he wouldn’t choke. A wooden cup was pressed to his lips and cool water touched his tongue. He drank thirstily, reaching up and tipping the cup back.
“Enough for now,” said Azzeal with a smile, gently pulling back the cup.
Beside him his amma applied a cold cloth to his forehead.
“Fever has broke,” she croaked.
Talon lay back and closed his heavy eyes. He didn’t remember feeling so tired in a dream before.
Talon woke to a big wet tongue licking his face. He laughed and turned his head, trying to get away from the tongue bath.
“Stop, Chief,” he giggled, turning his head.
He raised a hand to playfully fend off his wolf pup, but his hand touched a furry head bigger than a man’s. Talon stared into the big brown eyes of a bear.
“You’re not Chief,” he said, unafraid. He had been having too many strange dreams to be afraid of this one.
“He says, ‘good morning,’” said Azzeal, coming into view over the bear’s shoulder. He stood beside the bed and scratched behind Beorn’s ear.
“Good morning? Is this real?” asked Talon trying to sit up.
“I wouldn’t just yet. You’ll tear the vines,” said Azzeal.
“This is real?” he asked again, looking around. He recognized the cave in which he had been given the ring—the ring he lost.
“Is it? Who is to tell? Even if any could tell, how are we to know whether they are real? You�
�re not dreaming, at least—I don’t think.”
“Amma?” said Talon as Gretzen walked over to the bed, crushing something with mortar and pestle.
She groaned and felt his head with the back of her hand. Azzeal took a seat next to him and watched her work, intrigued.
“Elf come in dream, say walk to cave, say I find you here,” said Gretzen.
Talon glanced at Azzeal. The elf nodded.
“Thank you,” said Talon, realizing that somehow Azzeal had freed him from his captors.
“You are quite welcome,” said Azzeal, his grin revealing long, sharp canine teeth.
“What about Fylkin; what about Akkeri?” Talon suddenly shot up in bed and pain jolted his back. He gave a cry and braced himself.
His amma pushed him back down with a strong arm. “Lie down while you’re being tended to! What you gonna do, swim out in ocean and track her down? Don’t be simple. Elf spent good hours sewin’ you up; don’t be ruining his work.”
Talon remembered the hooks around his collarbones. His bare chest was bruised badly, but the wounds had been closed, sewn together with what looked like thin green vines.
“May I finish the gash on your shoulder?” asked Azzeal, gesturing to his right.
Talon nodded. Azzeal smiled and reached out of sight. Beorn returned to his spot beside the fire, and Azzeal turned back with a small plant with long hanging roots.
“Do not be alarmed. This is simply a tool,” said Azzeal as he stuck his finger between the blue petals. The flower closed around his finger and the petals began to glow. Azzeal lowered the reaching roots to the long gash on Talon’s shoulder, and a clear liquid oozed into the wound. The pain was replaced by a soft tingling sensation. The roots probed the wound as Azzeal remained motionless with closed eyes.
Finally he retracted the roots and carefully placed them in a clear bowl full of a swampy looking liquid which he held in his other hand. He whispered something in Elvish and the plant began to grow vines no thicker than strands of spider silk. The vines curled and weaved through the air, searching. Azzeal lowered the plant to Talon’s wound once more and the vines grew into him. He felt the same strange tingling sensation deeper in his skin as the vines did their work.
